


Can't Let You Go

by mommymuffin



Series: Breathe Me [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Stiles, Blood, Blood Bond, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapped Stiles, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Post Season 2 Canon Divergent, Protective Derek, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-04 03:11:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mommymuffin/pseuds/mommymuffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So, what do you want with me?"</p><p>Any and all feeling in his body drains away and Stiles is left hollow and brittle and numb when the witch answers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not Now

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, I can't believe I am getting this up so quickly! You guys are so spoiled... 
> 
> But, here it is! Part Three!
> 
> Tags will be updated when the second chapter is posted. A note, there is going to be A LOT OF BLOOD in the next chapter. Do not start reading this if that is going to be a no for you.
> 
> Also, I would like to mention that the series title "Breath Me" is taken from the song by Sia of the same name and you should go give it a listen if you haven't.

"Stiles, your dad is coming."

Consciousness bursts into Stiles' brain like a dam has broken, floods into every corner.

"Crap. Crap, crap, crap."

"Your bandages," Derek says.

"I know, I know!" Stiles notices Derek isn't leaving, isn't going to let him face this alone if that's what it comes to.

Stiles has a plan though. It's a flimsy one and his dad may well see through it, but it's all he's got.

"Go out on the roof. Hurry," he says.

Derek frowns, daylight's not really his thing, but he does as he's told.

Stiles buries his upper half in the bottom of his closet just as his father knocks on the door.

"Yeah?" he calls from a pile of long untouched junk.

"Stiles--" his father cuts off with a frown when he spots his son. "What are you doing?"

"Looking for something, duh. Scott says I have it. I don't think I have it, but Scott says I do and as his best friend I am obligated to look." Stiles rummages around, carefully keeps his arms hidden from view. He's grateful there are no wounds on his feet, that his shoes had prevented it, that the white, white bandages stop at his ankles.

"Okay…" his father says slowly, gives his son's wriggling rear end a strange look,  but doesn't comment further. "I was just checking in on you. I'm beat. I'm going to bed."

"Yeah, those Friday nights will do that to ya. Sleep tight, Dad!"

"Uh-huh," Sheriff Stilinski says on his way out and shuts the door behind him.

Derek is through the window and at Stiles' side in between one beat of the teen's heart and the next. He's drawing him up, finding skin  at the base of his head, over his spine and curling his fingers around the blank space. His other hand comes up to tilt Stiles' head back, rests it on his shoulder, opens his airway to breathe. His thumb sneaks up to wipe away some of the hot tears.

When Derek's veins fill with thick, black pain, Stiles shudders, chokes, breathes in a gasp of relief.

"I…" he tries to say and Derek shushes him, smooths a hand over his forehead.

Minutes pass and Stiles finally sags back, exhausted after the intense onslaught of pain, after the last of the adrenaline has cleared from his system. Derek's arms are gently guiding him back to the bed.

"You should use some of that ointment Deaton gave you."

Stiles nods and sits up. He's not sure how long his borrowed relief will last, but he wants to get the salve on as soon as he can. Even though he knows Derek will take his pain away again when it comes.

Stiles starts to peel away bandages. His heart sinks at the sight of the damage. Many of his wounds are too deep to be considered cuts, they're more like punctures.  The worst of it is on his arms, his chest, his _fingers_. He slips out of his pants, hikes up his boxers and gets  the last of the dressings off. None of them bleed for which he is grateful like a starving man handed a meal. It must be because of the tincture. A lot of them should be.

Stiles carefully scoops some of the balm onto his index and middle fingers of one hand and stares at it for a moment. _Heal,_ he thinks, silently shouts. His hand tightens around the cannister briefly and it feels warm in his palm. He inhales deeply and then smothers it over the back of his other hand.

Derek wordlessly helps him with his back. It takes  probably an hour for them to cover his wounds back up. Derek only has to take his pain once.  Stiles puts some clothes back on, a loose tee and sweatpants; he certainly won't be wearing jeans again until he has to.

He turns to Derek who is waiting patiently, ready to lend a hand should it be needed. Derek's eyes are clear, his expression open, soft. Stiles has never seen the werewolf look anything other than dark and brooding and angry. But, here Derek is standing in front of him, looking anything but. And all for Stiles. Because Stiles was hurt.

Stiles isn't sure what falling in love with someone feels like, but he thinks that may be exactly what's happening in this moment.

"I'm hungry," Stiles declares. That's not at all what he wanted to say.

Derek huffs through his nose once, almost smiles. "Then, get something to eat."

"I was planning on it," Stiles shoots back. He doesn't move toward the door. He waits, asks, "You're going to stick around, right?"

Derek's eyes pin Stiles for a moment. There's something in his expression that Stiles doesn't recognize, has never seen directed at him, has certainly never seen on _Derek's_ face.

Derek says, "Yeah," and the expression doesn't fall away. Stiles is sure it'll preoccupy his thoughts for the rest of the day.

No. Wait. The witch who is out to get him is still at the forefront of his mind. Derek's look, second.

Derek doesn't make a single sound following Stiles out of his room and into the kitchen. Stiles boggles at werewolf stealth. His dad will never even know Derek was here. Hell, Stiles wouldn't know he was there either if Derek wasn't following him around.

That thought gives him pause and Stiles stops abruptly in the kitchen. Derek of course doesn't smack into him, stops with plenty of space between them. Rounding on Derek Stiles asks, "You've never been in my house without my knowledge, have you?"

Derek gives him a look like Stiles just asked him if he wanted to be a cat. "No," he replies shortly.

"Okay. Good." Stiles nods awkwardly.

Derek rolls his eyes. "Stiles. The only time I have ever been in your house is in your room _with you_."

"You can't blame me for wondering!" Stiles protests, a familiar hand flail accompanying it. "You're awfully quiet. And you _were_ waiting for me that one time. You're a total creeper, Derek. Admit it."

"Scaring you witless seemed like a good way to get you to do what I wanted at the time."

Stiles scoffs. "Well, I guess that's true." Stiles pulls Eggos out of the freezer. He stands there holding them and staring into the icebox as he says, "You know you can just ask now, right?"

Derek's eyes find the back of Stiles' head. "I know."

Stiles turns around quickly, overly casual look on his face. "Eggo?"

Derek shrugs. "Sure."

 

 

It's like a breath of fresh air. Stiles is himself again. He's asking stupid questions and flailing properly and just _being Stiles_. Derek can't help it when he inhales deeply when Stiles isn't looking  and takes in the mildly content and supremely jittery scent coming off of Stiles. That's how he usually smells. When no one is in any immediate danger at least.

Derek knows it's not because of him, but he can't help but feel warm about the fact that Stiles is acting like this in his presence. He's not scared of anything right now. Derek makes him feel safe.

And that makes Derek feel good.

 

 

Stiles knows he said the murderous stalker was what he would be thinking about all day. But. He lied.

He's thinking about Derek.

Derek is always so windowless, you can't ever see anything inside. It drives Stiles crazy. Most days he wants to burrow deep inside Derek and spend as much time as it takes wrapped up in him to understand him, to even glean at least one piece of _something_ about him. Most days Stiles wants to just shake him until he makes an expression that isn't _dark_.

But, Derek had made a different sort of expression this morning, one that Stiles couldn't parse. Even now, sitting here eating a freaking Eggo waffle of all things, he looks kind of relaxed. Content. Like he had that morning they ate breakfast with the Sheriff. He seems less mad at the world. And Stiles likes that. He never did bring up eating breakfast with Derek once a week to his dad like he'd meant to, the stalker incident had started too soon after. Stiles will be sure to do that soon.

Also, Stiles can't say enough about all the _touching_ recently. Soft, gentle, caring touching. Stiles doesn't even know where to start with that. It came out of nowhere. And it's _staying_. Stiles isn't complaining.

"You're not in pain again," Derek says suddenly.

Stiles blinks at him.

Derek had been watching Stiles' hands waiting for when the rips in his fingertips became too painful to hold a fork again. But, they never did.

"Oh…" Stiles thinks about it, looks down at himself. "Must be Deaton's stuff working. Wow, that's pretty good stuff he gave me, huh?"

It's not. It's Stiles that's making the salve work. Without his belief it would just be a jar of balm that smells like eucalyptus.

"I guess," Derek says.

Stiles frowns at him, suspicious of his tone. But, he lets it go. Because his toes are resting on top of Derek's shoe and Derek hasn't shaken him off.

 

 

The next few days pass very much the same to one another.

Stiles can feel someone watching him. But, he can feel that it's Derek.

The werewolf follows him everywhere now, never far. He sleeps in the chair beside Stiles' bed every night, careful to hide every time the Sheriff comes near. He lurks outside the school for most of the day, disappearing for a few hours only when Stiles is safely tucked away in a classroom with Scott and Isaac. He's never gone long.

The dreams don't come. And Stiles doesn't know if that's because Derek is there or because of something else entirely. But, it doesn't matter. He finally feels safe at night again.

Stiles' wounds are healed enough by Monday to not have to wear the bandages. He marvels at the strenght of Deaton's salve. Derek remains silent on the matter. Stiles puts the wrappings and the belief-infused salve back on each night to repair the last of the damage. By Thursday they're gone completely, not even leaving scars behind.

Friday comes and Stiles wakes up with a cold knot of dread in his stomach, a hot prickle of fear at the back of his neck. Something's going to happen.

"Derek," he says that morning before the werewolf has a chance to slip out the window and wait in the Camaro for Stiles to leave for school.

Derek looks at him, waiting.

"Stay close today," Stiles says.

Derek nods curtly and vaults through the window. He stays on the roof.

After school Stiles is walking up to the front door of his house as usual, while Derek goes up the back to hop in through Stiles' window, also per usual lately.

Derek can't reach the window.

He almost falls off the roof at first, his hand deflecting away from its goal. He glances at the sill even though he already knows what he'll find there, even though the fury is already building in his chest.

Mountain ash.

It's lining the sill. A quick check of the window beside him confirms it's there, too.

Derek feels a swelling rage take hold of him. He's furious at his helplessness, at his stupidity, at the fact that he's not going to make it to the front of the house in time. 

He tries anyway. He races in inhuman leaps and bounds around the house, stopping dead center in the line of the doorway. Stiles is just stepping over the threshold.

"Stiles!"

The boy turns, confused.

"I can't get in!" Derek screams.

Stiles' eyes light with realization and his gaze falls to land on the line of mountain ash covering the door jamb. He has a brief moment that feels like forever of heart-seizing panic, but then he's moving, foot sliding across the floor to disrupt the ash. But, he never reaches it. Hands are already closing over his face, over his mouth and eyes. The door swings shut. He hears the enraged roar as the darkness envelops him like he was dropped into a pool of it. It's barely a moment before his consciousness is ripped away from him; Stiles has time for only one thought before everything is gone.

_Derek._


	2. Not Ever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE WILL BE BLOOD. ABORT MISSION IF YOU ARE NOT COMFORTABLE WITH THAT. 
> 
> Ohmygod, I can't believe I am finally getting this last chapter out! I should have known I was due for a damn kick in the pants from the universe. Anyway. Back on track. Here's the last bit. This is all I planned to write, folks. I hope you have enjoyed it! Thank you so much for sticking with me!

Stiles wakes up in a room he's never seen before.

No, scratch that. He's pretty sure he's seen this room in a comic book somewhere as some super villain's evil lair--or evil torture chamber.

That's promising.

The room is kind of round and lit well enough by old fixtures to see that it's grimy and probably underground. It smells a little like wet concrete and a lot like expired smoke.

One side of his shirt is split apart from the collar to the middle of his ribs, it looks like someone used dull scissors to do it. He very quickly figures out that he is tied to a chair and that twisting and pulling will get him nowhere.

A voice says as much.

Stiles jolts and whips his focus onto the man standing to the right of him  busying himself a table that appears to be covered in vials and small wooden boxes and more than few sharp instruments of varying kinds. The man is tall and thin, but has a certain bearing about him that screams arrogance. Pale, blonde hair sits atop his head and when he turns around, Stiles sees that his eyes are a disturbing shade of amber.

He smiles when he says, "Stiles, isn't it? Oh, of course it is. Like I don't know."

"Who the hell are you?" Stiles spits.

The man tilts his head sympathetically, like he's speaking to an upset child. "Daniel," he replies simply.

"Well, Daniel," Stiles says, "are you the one who's been causing all the _crap_ in my life recently?"

"That's not the phrasing I would have used, but yes, I am the responsible party."

"So, what do you want with me?"

Daniel's next smile hits Stiles straight in his core, filling him with the instinctive fear of prey being cornered by a predator. "Why, Stiles. I only want your heart."

Stiles raises an eyebrow. That wasn't the answer he was expecting. "You want...my heart? You want me to love you?" Stiles asks, bewildered and maybe a little relieved.

"No, Stiles," Daniel says, pityingly.

"Then, what?" Stiles asks, impatient now.

Any and all feeling in his body drains away and Stiles is left hollow and brittle and numb when Daniel answers.

"Stiles. I'm going to eat your heart."

Stiles glances down at his exposed chest like it's betrayed him. His lips are trembling, his voice will barely come out, but he asks, "What?"

"I'm going to eat your heart, sunshine. To keep me young." Daniel's all immodest gloating as he says, "I bet you don't know many three hundred and twenty-seven year olds who look as great as me, do you?"

"I don't...I don't understand…" Stiles breathes out and when did the air get so heavy in here?

"Well, I'm a witch, you see. Like you," Daniel says with a flippant point of his finger in Stiles' direction.

Stiles' disbelief must show on his face.

"Oh, you don't even know that, do you, honey? Well, that's what makes you perfect, really. Young, powerful, and completely clueless."

"What?" Stiles hisses and he's mad now. He's so freaking pissed at this pompous man.

"You're the perfect victim, Stiles. You have great magic within you, perfect for me to steal away for my own, but you don't know how to use any of it to stop me." Daniel simpers, a cheerful and mocking hum. "I love it when I find a witch like you."

Stiles' mind catches on that. "The mall. You found me at the mall that day."

"Oh, yes. I was just out to buy a new set of wooden spoons. Imagine my glee when I spotted _you_."

"And the rose?"

"I needed some of your blood."

"And you couldn't have just pricked me a little?" Stiles snaps.

He smiles, soft and frightening. "Oh, Stiles. Don't you see? It was all a test. From the moment I first saw you, I could tell you were _gifted_. But, I had to see _how_ gifted. I didn't want a heart that wasn't going to do me any good."

"So, the dreams."

"Yes," he says with a nod. "The dreams were a test of stamina. Lesser witches would have broken under the weight of them and been left screaming in their beds like children or slipped away into a neverending coma. But, you lasted. Intact even."

"So, you weren't waiting for Derek to leave?"

"What, that pesky werewolf of yours? No. While werewolves are troublesome, he was never _really_ an obstacle. Of course, he is an Alpha. That would have presented a slight challenge."

"And then you decided you needed my blood. What for?"

"Ah. The blood measured your magical skill for me," he says with a gesture toward a bowl. Stiles is disgusted when he realizes its holding blood that is most likely his. Daniel continues,  "And let me tell you, your magic potential  is spectacular, I mean delicious really. But, you've not harnessed any of it. And like I said, that's perfect. A talented little witch, who doesn't know how to use his magic. Valuable, but easy to catch and kill."

Stiles glares at him, clenches his teeth. Rage boils in his stomach. Rage at the man before him for doing any of this in the first place, the sick bastard. Rage at himself for being powerless when he shouldn't be.

"Now," Daniel says, lifting a sharp, cold knife that looks to be as long as Stiles' forearm. He approaches Stiles, brings the metal to touch soft, clammy skin. "Let's get started, shall we?"

The blade slices through the meat of Stiles' shoulder easily. The sickening sound of splitting flesh is drowned by the scream that it earns. Daniel hovers over Stiles, hand still on the knife and smiling like he's finally found a coveted treasure. Stiles stares wildly at the metal intruding into his body, even though he knows he probably shouldn't. Crimson flows steadily from the wound, over the smooth blade and down Stiles chest. The knife is buried high enough in the fleshy part of his shoulder that leads to his armpit that it hasn't hit anything vital as of yet. Of course. Daniel wouldn't want to damage his prize; the hole he's going to cleave into Stiles' chest is going to be massive.

Stiles is starting to panic. He would probably already be having an attack, but the pain is too sharp, too overwhelming and it stamps down on the panic like it's squashing a bug, screaming at Stiles that he needs to fix this, that _this_ is more important than his pathetic little tendency toward panic attacks.

Daniel's white teeth glint when his lips spread into an even wider smile. He makes to move the blade through more of Stiles' chest and Stiles can't see anything except bubbling red and cold steel in front of his eyes. Daniel drags the blade down ever so slightly--

A force like a hurricane blows the door in and Daniel and Stiles both startle and look toward the source. Derek is standing there and Stiles could cry. In fact he might be a little.

Furious and fanged Derek rushes Daniel. The witch curses and releases his hold on the knife's handle to deal with Derek. Stiles sobs in relief. Everything is going to be okay now.

Daniel manages to dodge Derek which should not be possible, but the man is probably so pumped full of magic that doesn't belong to him that it doesn't really surprise Stiles. Derek doesn't stop to think about how the man is so fast, just lunges again and again.

Daniel stays out of the reach of the teeth and claws, landing sharp little stabs on Derek's body with a pair of daggers he produced from his clothes. When Derek pauses to consider a different method of attack, Daniel has the gall to smirk at him. Derek roars and drops down, shifting grotesquely into the full Alpha form. _That_ gives _Daniel_ pause.

Derek uses the opportunity to charge him. Massive jaws clamp down on an arm and Daniel howls in pain. A swift kick sends Derek flying and Daniel rears back, fury hot in his eyes.

"I've had just about enough of you, you filthy pest! I'll deal with you later!" Daniel declares grabbing a jar from the table and breaking it on the floor.

Mountain ash erupts from it and skitters across the floor. Stiles watches in horror as it encircles Derek. Traps him.

Daniel strolls over to Derek, far too pleased for anyone's liking but his own. His mangled arm hangs by his side but it doesn't seem to be bothering him too much. Stiles suspects it's already healing.

"I knew I should have just killed you when I had the chance. But, you know werewolves, there's always more than one floating around and I really didn't want to have to deal with a whole pack of you lot," Daniel says, glib, to Derek from the other side of the barrier.

Derek rages against the barrier, bright white light bursting forth to push him back every time. He stops and stands and snarls. Daniel looks thoroughly unimpressed.

"Oh, hush, you beast," he says and with a flick of his wrist sends the werewolf into a fitted transformation back into his human form.

Derek lays on the floor, bloody, panting, and shell-shocked. Forcing a werewolf to shift against their will is a harsh act that leaves the wolf shaken and numbed. Derek still manages to slide an arm across the floor toward Stiles. His eyes find the teen's and he doesn't look away.

Satisfied, Daniel says, "There. Much better. Now, you just lie there quietly and wait your turn. I'll get to you soon enough."

The dark witch turns back to Stiles and Stiles feels his heart in his throat, feels claws of panic and roiling tendrils of fear choking him. He doesn't feel the pain in his chest anymore, the adrenaline's too strong; the panic's won.

Daniel leisurely steps up to the teen and lifts a hand to place it back on the carving tool.

"Now. Where were we?"

Stiles shuts his eyes to brace himself, to block out the horrific death that he's about to suffer, but that's when he feels it. Tugging.

Stiles' brow crinkles in confusion, concentration, trying to seek out this new feeling. It's moving through him rapidly, cutting through the panic and fear and failure like a shark through water. It breaches the surface and brushes against his mind, makes his hands tingle. It's a rush of power, smooth and warm and _full_ and Stiles still doesn't know what it's doing, but he knows it's trying to tell him something.

It unwraps itself from Stiles and launches out into the space beyond his mind's eye. It's after something, wants something that's not Stiles, wants to bring whatever it is to Stiles. The power pulls and Stiles doesn't know what it's reaching for, what it's trying to grab. But, then he sees it.

And it's Derek.

Strong, suffering, caring Derek.

It's always been Derek, Stiles thinks, the words like an echo and he stops fighting the pull and lets the magic reach its goal.

Derek snaps to attention when the power touches him and Stiles' eyes fly open to lock with the werewolf's. In that moment something enormous happens; deep within Stiles something is unleashed. Derek doesn't know what's happening when Stiles' eyes briefly flicker like flames kindled, but in the next moment everything changes.

The knife goes flying across the room, repulsed from Stiles' chest. Daniel jumps back to avoid being hit by the sudden projectile. When he looks back his eyes find what pushed the blade out. Stiles' own blood is bursting forth from the wound, twisting in the air and taking a rough shape that is not yet recognizable . The lead of it jerks toward Derek and is diving toward him the next second. What resembles a paw smashes through the mountain ash ring. The creature runs around Derek and the next thing Derek knows the blood from his sealing wounds is rising up to meet it. He doesn't understand, but he rakes his claws across his arm anyway, releasing more blood into the air. It blends into Stiles' blood and the beast finally takes a form.

A wolf stands before them. Its coat is constantly shifting, liquid and dark and revealing glimpses of its empty insides. It waits, maw open and ready for attack, the unearthly growl it's emitting chilling the room's occupants to bone.

Stiles' eyes are wide, he can't even react to it. But, the blood wolf is ready, that much is clear. And so is Stiles.

"Sic 'im," he whispers and the wolf surges into action.

For an instant Daniel is rooted to the ground, white as a sheet and terror-stricken. The wolf charges and  he finally moves, throwing the daggers. The projectiles pass through the wolf's hollow form, disrupting the surface in little spurts of blood that fall back into place with ease, and land uselessly on the other side. A desperate attempt is made at destroying it by pure force, but the blood merely splatters against the concussive blast and reforms on the other side of it, closer to its target. Daniel doesn't manage to move in time, when the crimson mass leaps at him. The ear-splitting scream is cut short as jaws clamp down on the witch's neck and _rip_. The man's throat is spat onto the floor with a wet smack and the wolf turns back to Stiles, looking deeply satisfied. Its ruby eyes meet Stiles' briefly and then it's gone, splitting apart and swirling back toward the respective owners.

Stiles gasps sharply when the blood enters in through the wound it left from. It is definitely the strangest feeling he's ever experienced. A coal hot sensation glides across the gaping hole and when Stiles looks down, it's gone, completely sewn back up, seamless flesh in its wake. No red smatterings remain on clothes or skin and Stiles can only gape at the sight.

Derek is behind him, cutting through the ropes before Stiles can blink back into the present. Then, he's in front of him, catching Stiles as he slumps forward, no longer held upright by the ropes.

"Stiles! Stiles, are you okay? What just happened?" Derek runs a big, warm palm over Stiles' chest, checking for damage. Finding none, the hand cups Stiles' jaw and brings  the teen's focus to Derek's face.

"I have... _no_ idea," Stiles mumbles. He really doesn't. The blood wolf came out of _nowhere_. But, thank the stars it did.

Daniel lies dead in the corner and Stiles instinctually knows that he is really and  truly dead. It's over. And Stiles just wants to go home.

He looks at Derek, eyes finding a little more clarity and he asks, "You okay?"

"Yeah," Derek says, frowning softly, which Stiles knows is actually a smile.

"Good. Let's go home," Stiles says and lets the overwhelming exhaustion win. He collapses into Derek's arms, trusting Derek to do the rest.

 

 

Stiles decides upon waking in Derek's arms for the second time in his short life that this is how he should always wake up. He wonders briefly if the novelty of it would wear off one day and that he wouldn't care for it anymore. He doubts it.

Derek is in his bed with him this time, pressed close in the small quarters. Not that he wouldn't be pressed close anyway. At least. Stiles thinks. Hopes.

Head tucked under Derek's chin, Stiles can tell he's awake. His breathing is even, but not nearly deep enough to reflect sleep. The werewolf doesn't say anything even though he must be well aware Stiles is awake. That's fine. Though it is silent, it is not empty, and the aching hollowness of before seems to be filled with something that Stiles does not have the words for. But, that's all right, too. Stiles doesn't need words right now.

Time stretches for a bit, lazy and serene, and then, Derek says, "I should leave."

"I don't see why you should," Stiles says. Then, "I want you to be here."

Derek doesn't respond for a long moment. Stiles can sense him staring out into the middle distance somewhere, probably looking for an answer he isn't going to find in a teenage boy's room. He listens to Derek's breathing and waits.

"I want to be here, too," Derek finally says and settles in further, chin on top of Stiles' head.  

It's warm this feeling, this sense of belonging. It feels right having Derek here beside him. Stiles idly wonders if the feeling swirling around in his chest has something to do with the creature that came from his and Derek's blood. If the beast is pacing deep inside him. Or if this is something simpler, something more human.

Either way Stiles is riding the wave.

When he moves his mouth to the underside of Derek's jaw and   _presses_ , Derek  stays perfectly still for what feels like a lifetime. Stiles doesn't pull back. He won't.

Derek argues with himself for far longer than this decision should take. The answer is obvious. Stiles is too young and too fragile. Derek would destroy him in an instant, would drag him down to the bottom to drown with him. But, Derek can hear Stiles' heartbeat. He can hear how steady it is, how sure the teen is. And the way Stiles' smells right now. He doesn't smell like lust or desire, like this is some sort of impulse he can't control. He smells strong. He smells calm. He smells like what Derek is beginning to suspect is _love_.

He shouldn't. He can't. Stiles is so breakable, he'll ruin him, he can't do this to someone he cares about, he _can't--_

For once Derek manages to tune out the roaring waters in his mind and push himself toward the surface. When he breaks through, he realizes it's because he was pulled up. By Stiles. Derek had tried to push Stiles up and away, away from him, away from his darkness, but Stiles had turned around and dragged him up with him.

A thrum runs through his chest, brazen, and Derek knows  it's his wolf singing at the feel of Stiles in his arms, at his heartbeat in his ears, at his blood  calling out to Derek's.

Derek takes the first breath of air he's had in a long, long time and knows with a great wash of certainty that he _can_.

The water will never drag him down again. Because Stiles will not let it.

Derek's head dips and his lips find Stiles' so easily, he wonders how it hadn't happened sooner. The grip on the back of his t-shirt tightens and Stiles is pliant and open and _freeing_. Derek moves, covers him with his body, finds more and more skin he wants to touch.  

It's not long before Stiles is unclothed and writhing  under him, bucking and matching his pace, shuddering and lying still and spent and perfect.

They have a lot to talk about now. As if the wolf they share between them, a bond written in blood,  was not enough to discuss, there is this now. _This_.

Derek can't live without this. He knows he can't.

"Let's go back to sleep," Stiles murmurs and Derek is obliged to obey him.

Settling in Stiles feels _something_ between them and he thinks they may have just done something they can't undo. His blood is alive in his veins; it reaches out and he wonders if Derek feels it, too, in his own veins, in Stiles'. Derek's arm is heavy over his waist and exactly where it should be. Stiles hears a wolf howling in his head and is not surprised when another howl answers it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> http://mommymuffin.tumblr.com/


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